Mrs. Susan Moreau couldn’t sleep.
She lay in bed that night, silk sheets clinging to her thighs, her fingers still twitching with the memory of his voice.
“Rub faster. Don’t stop. Let me see the creamy mess.”
Keiran Vale.
The housekeeper’s son.
The quiet, built young man who’d spent years hauling soil through her roses and trimming the hedges with arms cut from labor.
He’d always been helpful. Always respectful. Always looking just a second too long at her chest when she poured coffee in the mornings.
But last night?
Last night he saw everything.
She had never felt that kind of fire—not since her husband’s funeral.
Not in years of loneliness, or therapy, or expensive, empty flings.
And now?
One accidental walk-in, and she couldn’t stop thinking about his c**k.
The way it twitc
